


Sketch Me A Beginning

by Foophile



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, Diary/Journal, Discovery, M/M, Secrets, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foophile/pseuds/Foophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sketches were a window into Michael’s soul. He had a mixture of quick line drawings of the apartments across the street, complex shadings of trees and light, and full colored pencil portraits of a few of his friends on the track team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketch Me A Beginning

Lincoln hadn’t gone looking for Michael’s journal. To be completely honest, he had no idea that his 16 year old brother would even have a diary, much less hide it in such an obvious place as his sock drawer.

Lincoln had recognized it immediately as he dug through the bottom, looking for a ratty pair of socks he could wear to work. He’d given the book to Michael years ago. When Michael was 11 and Lincoln had just been released from a two month stay in jail. The journal was an apology disguised as a birthday present but Lincoln knew when he gifted it that his little brother would understand its purpose.

As he held it in his hands, Lincoln realized that he really _should_ have known that Michael would need to vent the mammoth amount of information that his genius brain consumed everyday. And Lincoln opened the brown leather book expecting to see notes of scientific gobbly guk or detailed drawings of the Sears Tower, drawn from every possible angle known to man.

Instead, in the beginning pages, he found a sketch of a man’s hand and a journal entry underneath.

“ _May, 1992_.” Michael’s handwriting looked rushed. Less chicken scratch and sharper lines, hurried, as if Michael’s high-speed mind and hand were connected. Conversely, the pencil soft lines of the drawn hand, the meticulous tracing and retracing of the square fingertips and short nails spoke of care and study.

The hands were prematurely old, dark lines drawn into the skin to denote calluses from hard work. They were in no way beautiful or even attractive rather, Lincoln thought, they were relatable. Lincoln couldn’t deny Michael’s considerable talent. His brother’s attention to detail, something that almost crippled Michael when he was younger, was blossoming into a quality that made Michael even more unique.

“It’s taken me a while to start this journal,” said the entry underneath the picture. “Whenever I saw it before, I would get angry; think of why Linc gave it to me in the first place. But now, so many things have changed that I feel like I can’t _not_ use this. Especially because of who gave it to me.

I know I won’t write in this everyday, but there are so many things that I see now. That I need to write down and remember. I’m noticing little things that I’ve taken advantage of before. His hands made me realize that.

I wonder if anyone else can see what I see in them. Such tenderness wrapped in rough, violent edges. My first awareness of them, of him, happened in my dreams and it made sense why. I would never be able to accept my attraction for him otherwise. Although…I guess I just did.

I’d never realized how little we touch each other. How little he touches others. As if he’s afraid that he’s got some twisted version of a Midas touch. His hands make me sad.

I’d once read in a book about a woman who knew that she’d found the man she was going to be with for the rest of her life by the way that his hand touched hers. She described how she ached for his touch and I thought that she was being overly sentimental. Putting too much value in something so small. But now, when I wake up imagining that his hands were on my body, my skin tingling like every hair’s standing on end, I think I understand what she meant.

I wonder if he’s ever felt that way about anyone, even her.

I wish that I didn’t wish that he’d want me that way.”

Lincoln frowned, glancing up at the date. Michael made the entry last year when he was 15. He tried to think of who had that kind of access to his brother.

Anger burned through Lincoln’s brain at the thought of a man he didn’t know being around Michael. The man, with those hands, who knew Michael personally. And, Lincoln gritted his teeth, deserved to get the beating of his life.

Lincoln shut the journal with a slam and put it back into the drawer. His body was humming with violence and confusion. His feet were still bare.

Were they lovers now? Lincoln wondered, slamming through the apartment.

Michael was 16 and flourishing. Everyday, it seemed Michael was getting taller, almost as tall as Lincoln, and his long limbs were roped with lean muscle from joining the high school track team. His back and shoulders were broader and he tanned at the slightest hint of sun. Even Veronica, who remembered Michael in diapers, laughed that Michael was gorgeous. Lincoln could tell that she wasn’t joking.

Michael’s hair was wild and curly, all over his head, and Lincoln didn’t nag him about cutting it because he knew that Michael was only thinking of their mother, Christina. She had wild dark hair that made her seem like an angel when the light hit her face. The only pictures they had of her were in profile, when her hair was nearly obscuring her laughing eyes.

And at the thought of someone touching all of that - Lincoln halted in the narrow hallway and bent to put his hands on his knees. He tried to catch his breath, dragging air in by the mouthful. Lincoln tipped to the side a bit and slid into the wall.

“Oh god, Mike. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Lincoln had nothing against gay people. They lived in Chicago after all and there were plenty of people he knew, even in the shady groups he frequented, that liked pitching for the same team.

Hell, Lincoln thought, he’d even had a few moments where he’d thought he might (possibly, occasionally) be attracted to men. Okay, Lincoln could admit privately that he still had those moments.

But Lincoln had never expressed an opinion in either direction and made sure never to imply one.

So, he reasoned on the hallway floor, the reason why Michael didn’t tell him about the mysterious lover had to be that Michael didn’t trust that he could handle the truth.

He caught his breath and wiped his sweaty face with one shaky hand, thinking that Michael would have been absolutely right.

Although Michael was a teenager, he’d never really been young and was remarkably mature for his age. Lincoln had done his best to never treat Michael like a child, like he would treat LJ, because not only would his brother tear him down but he would know, with his big brain, more reasons for Lincoln’s behavior than Lincoln had even imagined.

Lincoln knew that he couldn’t be the avenging brother in this situation. Michael wasn’t a girl, was barely a boy, and was becoming one of the best men that Lincoln had ever known. He knew that he had to be like Michael in order to figure it all out. He had to be smart.

Michael researched and studied. He relied on other people’s knowledge to enhance his own. Lincoln knew that he could do the same and that one of the best sources was still sitting in the sock drawer.

_______________________

By the end of five days, Lincoln still had no clean socks and was re-thinking his decision to ever read Michael’s journal.

The sketches were a window into Michael’s soul. He had a mixture of quick line drawings of the apartments across the street, complex shadings of trees and light, and full colored pencil portraits of a few of his friends on the track team. And, of course, there were the drawings of the Sears Tower. Michael wouldn’t be Michael without them.

But then there would be random drawings of muscled shoulders and arms that evaporated anonymously off the page. There were three entries of a man’s foot (over three consecutive months) that almost had Lincoln ambushing Michael the second he came home from school.

The entry the day Michael turned 16 was the worst. On September 8th, there was an entire body face down in a bed; the head (the crucial piece) covered by a pillow. Lincoln thought that Michael must have worked on it for hours, capturing the fall of the sheet across his lover’s torso and even the stitching of the man’s black boxers.

To make it worse, the written entries had gotten more…intensive. Michael was wanting more from the man. He never wrote about dates or times in which they would meet but Michael would describe how he felt to have his lover close.

 _January, 1993_ , Michael’s journal heading said. There were two small pencil sketches. One was the profile of a man’s thigh, half covered by a towel. And the second was obviously the focus of Michael’s written entry underneath.

“Last night I wondered what his cock would taste like. I’ve seen it enough times, drawn it now so that I would never forget. But last night, for the first time, could see myself doing more than just touching it. After all, I have a cock too. Maybe we wouldn’t even feel different. It would make sense if we didn’t. But taste…Nothing, not even chicken, tastes the same to everyone.

I imagine that he would taste salty, like I do, only maybe grittier. Maybe he would taste of experience, whatever that tastes like, or of the earth that he works with everyday.

I know he doesn’t mean to tease me. He doesn’t know how much I watch. But sometimes I look at him and can’t ever image being with someone else. It sounds girly or romantic – two things I’ve never been very well acquainted with – but sometimes, even when he’s so angry his face gets red and blotchy and I think he might pop a blood vessel, he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

I know that he can’t come close to comprehending that. He beats himself up too much to be able to look in the mirror and see anything but all of the bruises he’s inflicted on the inside. But when it’s just the two of us, when we’re not playing our roles as protector and protected, I can see what he doesn’t even try to be…

Tasting him would be like drawing a little bit of that into me. Just the thought of that makes me hard.”

Lincoln had to close the book. His stomach had dropped and he couldn’t help but picture Michael on his knees. Taking some stranger’s cock into his mouth and loving the taste. Possibly closing his eyes at the feeling of it stretching his pink lips wide.

Lincoln groaned and opened the journal again, flipping the pages until he came to the sketch of a cock he could barely glance at. His eyes tripped down the page to finish the entry.

“When I touch myself it’s almost like I can feel him over me, straddling my head. Watching my face as I try to take his cock down my throat. I don’t want him to be gentle with me, although I know he’ll try to be.

I just want him. I want to be so filled with him that we can’t tell each other apart. My stomach aches with want and I know that I’ll never change. Then my stomach aches even more because I know that I can never have him.”

Lincoln closed the journal again with the new evidence ringing. Was the lover married?

He groaned at the added implications. How could Michael get involved with someone like that? And more importantly, how could Michael meet his lover and dodge a wife plus Lincoln at the same time?

Michael wasn’t sneaking out at night. Lincoln had checked. The school would have called if Michael was missing days. And yet Michael knew every part of this man’s body. Touched it. Wanted to taste it, if he hadn’t already.

And the depth of Michael’s want…Lincoln had never felt anything in comparison. Except for maybe the despair he experienced at the moment, knowing that Michael was sneaking around.

Every entry from the beginning of Michael’s 16th year until the latest entry last month only grew worse. More graphic and desperate. Michael’s description of a dream he’d had where his lover held him down and fucked him into the bed left Lincoln uncomfortable and hard.

Lincoln couldn’t ignore the images Michael described. Couldn’t help but see flashes of them when Michael would come home from school, sweaty from an afternoon practice. His brother hated to shower at school but would be half-naked by the time the front door closed.

Usually Lincoln would be in the kitchen making dinner, trying not to watch as Michael dropped his book bag and stripped off his t-shirt. And lately, he hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from Michael’s retreat to the bathroom or when he returned to eat, his skin rosy and his hair dripping wet.

Lincoln had been harder in the last week than he’d ever remembered being and the reason why scared him enough to keep quiet about the secret lover. He was afraid that when he did confront Michael, his jealously would drip from his lips like poison and certainly turn Michael away from him forever.

“What are you doing?”

Lincoln jumped from Michael’s bed at the sound of his voice. The journal slipped from his hand and thumped to the carpet like a death knell. Michael’s face was drawn and furious. His thin body seemed to expand to take up the whole doorway.

“Mike, I didn’t mean to look...and I’m sorry...but you were,” Lincoln’s heart was hammering, making him stutter over his words until Michael interrupted.

“How can you not ‘mean to look’, Linc? I hid it away from you! It’s not like I left it on the refrigerator door!” Michael stomped into the room and grabbed the open journal off the floor.

The page was flipped to Michael’s sketch of the man’s hip and Lincoln glanced at it only to look away at Michael’s horrified squeak.

“I can’t believe you saw this. You weren’t ever supposed to know.” Michael seemed to slump where he stood.

His voice was so hopeless that Lincoln’s eyes watered in sympathy. “You weren’t honest with me Michael. Who is he? How are you meeting him? How can you do that and not tell me?”

Michael flinched back at Lincoln’s shout, then shook his head and closed the journal. “You really don’t know.”

Lincoln tried to calm down and reign in his voice. “Of course I don’t know. You haven’t said anything about this guy. I’m not angry, Michael.” He took a step to touch his brother and froze when Michael recoiled.

“I don’t care that you’re gay. I mean, no, I do care but only because you need to be careful. There are people out there that would hurt you just because of that and if this guy is married-,”

“He’s not married.” Michael choked out. He still had his eyes glued to floor and Lincoln itched to touch his face, bring those eyes to his own. “God, I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out.”

The way Michael said that brought up another wave of anger. “How am I supposed to know anything Mike? Jesus, do you want me to even know? You never draw his face.”

“Maybe,” Michael’s green eyes flicked to him briefly. “Maybe I don’t want you to hurt him.”

Lincoln sighed, sitting down heavily on Michael’s bed. “I would never do that. He matters to you and, even though I think you’re entirely too young for this, I wouldn’t harm him. Not unless he harmed you.” He added, his voice stony. “He hasn’t right?”

Michael still seemed scared, confused that Lincoln wasn’t ranting and raving. “No, he would never do that on purpose. Linc, you really don’t recognize him from the sketches?”

“For the last time, no, I don’t. And I’m not going to ask his name either. I’ll let you tell me that. But it better be soon, like in the next few hours. I want to know everything about this dude.”

Michael blinked slowly. When he finally looked at Lincoln, his eyes were relieved but still troubled. He dropped his book bag at the foot of the bed and came to join Lincoln’s side. The journal was placed on his bedside table. “You’re really not upset that I’m gay?”

“Naw, um,” Lincoln took a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, I think I might be bisexual.” Michael’s eyes went wide and Lincoln chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone okay?”

“As long as you don’t tell anyone about me,” Michael replied before he suddenly threw his arms around Lincoln’s neck in a hug. “I never thought you would be okay with everything.”

Lincoln couldn’t remember the last time they’d hugged and pulled Michael in tight. “I’m not. I don’t like the idea of you sneaking around. But I love you, Mike. I know I don’t say it enough but, yeah, I do. And no matter what you do or who you like, I always will. More than anyone else in the world.”

Lincoln swallowed back a lump at the similarities his words had with Michael’s written declaration. He took a heavy breath that hurt his chest.

Michael’s body tensed in his arms. “I don’t know if you would still think that once I told you who it was. I’m afraid that you'll…” Michael trailed off and tightened his thin arms until Lincoln had trouble breathing.

Lincoln managed to unwind Michael’s arms to look at his face. “You said he wasn’t married. What? He’s some drug dealer or convict or something? Fuck, Michael, he’s not an addict is he?” There was a rush of panic at the thought.

“No, Linc. It’s not like that. I want to tell you so bad.”

“Then tell me! It can’t be any worse than that.” Lincoln balled his fists as Michael left his side and started to pace the length of his bed. His brother smelled of sweat and fabric softener, Michael’s scent deep down below but distinct.

“Linc, what was your first job after mom died?”

Lincoln frowned, alarmed at the change in subject. “You know that Michael. What does this have to do with anything?”

Michael’s eyes pleaded with him. “Just indulge me alright? I’ll answer all of you questions then.”

“I worked for the pizza place and then started bike messaging,” he sighed. “What’s your point?”

Michael stopped pacing and stared at the journal in thought.

“I remember you coming home that first week, your arms burned from the ovens and your hands and knees scraped from falling off your bike. I remember when the Owens had to come get you from the hospital that one time that you fell so hard you broke two of your fingers and scraped the skin off the side of your right hand.”

Michael looked at him again, asking, “And, after you found out Lisa was pregnant, you remember what you did?”

“After I got out of jail, you mean?” Lincoln wished Michael would get to the point.

“Yeah, Linc, after you got out and put your life together so fast I almost ran away from the foster home to be with you.” Michael took a step towards him. “You got the full time job at the construction company and worked so hard to be a good father to LJ, I thought you might not have time for me.”

“Mike, I never meant-,”

“I know that Linc. I know that you were working hard for all of us. So you could convince the state to let me stay with you. And you did, Linc. You showed them, literally, with your skin and bones that you could take care of two kids who needed you. Three years ago, you made a home for me when you’d barely had one yourself, Linc.”

Michael’s eyes and voice were soft. Lincoln didn’t know what to say but Michael wasn’t finished.

“I think it was then that I realized that you really loved me. I mean I loved you plenty but I could never be sure that you wouldn’t go away like everyone else.”

“I promised I wouldn’t.” Lincoln interrupted. Michael grinned at him.

“Yeah, you did. And I could tell you tried to keep it, even when you had to go away. Because you came back and I loved you even more for that. Then, about a year ago, I realized that those feelings had changed somehow. And I started the journal.”

“I don’t understand,” Lincoln shrugged. “Is that when you met him? What do I have to do with that?” Had he done something to push Michael into the arms of a stranger?

“Did you even look at the pictures, Linc?” Michael dragged his fingers through his hair with an aggravated growl. “It’s all been about you, Linc. The whole damn thing. Those are _your hands_ , _your_ hips. I know you don’t want to hear this but the journal is about you.”

Lincoln stared. “But that would mean…” He trailed off, thinking of the implications. Michael was drawing him. Michael wanted him. There was no secret lover, only Lincoln.

As he thought, he saw Michael retreating across the room. His body language screamed that he expected Lincoln to react harshly. But Lincoln could only remember his biggest fear of learning the identity of the lover: his jealousy. It had been gut wrenching and all-consuming, not that different from Michael’s descriptions of his desire.

His mind had shouted that it was wrong, was still shouting, but Lincoln thought of the love Michael described in his entries. Its depth had made him realize that he’d never felt that for anyone but Michael, not even LJ who he would kill for.

Lincoln thought of the sketches and how he’d never seen anything as meticulous, as full of love. He knew that he might not be certain of his feelings but Michael seemed to be.

“So, Linc,” Michael’s voice was a whisper from across the room. He was looking out of his window into the alley below. “Do you still love me?”

Lincoln was off the bed and at his brother’s back in an instant. “I don’t know,” he saw Michael flinch when he paused, “if I can be everything that you want me to be. And it might take some time to stop thinking that this is wrong, that I should be trying to protect you from what you want. But I guess that we can’t help what we feel.”

“And what do you feel?” Michael turned around with hope shining in his eyes.

Lincoln didn’t have to think to reply. “That I love you no matter what and don’t ever want to think about another person touching you other than me. I was jealous of myself, Michael. I think we’ve gone beyond conventional thinking here.”

Michael inched closer. “Good, then don't think I’ll talk you out of this. Because I won’t. I’ll let you kiss me and do whatever you want.”

So close to Michael, Lincoln’s body was thrumming with possibility. He was terrified but with Michael in front of him, wanting, Lincoln had never been so certain that he was also doing the right thing.

Lincoln leaned into kiss him then stopped. “You’ll tell me if you ever think this is wrong, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Michael whispered against his mouth. “I’ll just draw a diagram in my journal. You’ll never figure it out.”

END  



End file.
